Or shall I not, refusing such promotion,

Bequeath to London my contented ghost?

I will come back to my Eternal City;

Her fogs once more my countenance shall dim;

I will enliven your austere committee

With gossip gleaned among the cherubim.

By day I’ll tread again the sounding mazes,

By night I’ll track the moths about the Park;

My feet shall fall among the dusky daisies,

Nor break nor bruise a petal in the dark.

I will repeat old inexpensive orgies;

Drink nectar at the bun-shop in Shoreditch,

Or call for Nut-Ambrosia at St. George’s,

And with a ghost-tip make the waitress rich.

My soundless feet shall fly among the runners

Through the red thunders of a Zeppelin raid,

My still voice cheer the Anti-Aircraft gunners,

The fires shall glare—but I shall cast no shade.

And if a Shadow, wading in the torrent

Of high excitement, snatch me from the riot—

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